


Say Please

by mightierthanthecanon



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Subspace, Violence, obligatory 'Handsome Jack is an abusive asshole' tag, rhys and sasha go on a date, shameless overuse of pet names, spoiler alert: Handsome Jack ruins it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightierthanthecanon/pseuds/mightierthanthecanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the endless near-death experience that was the Gortys Project, his new 50+ hour workweek as president of Hyperion, more failed dates than he can count, and Jack's tendency to pop up at the most inappropriate moments, Rhys hasn't gotten off in a long time. All of these things are Jack's fault. Most of these things are on purpose.</p><p>Or, Jack talks Rhys through the best orgasm of his life whether he wants it or not. (He wants it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King of the Stooges

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been years since I’ve loved anything as much as I love the Rhys/Handsome Jack dynamic, so…this is my effort at writing something as in-character and canon-compliant as possible. AKA: Rhys hiding his insecurities under layers upon layers of sass, Jack being a manipulative, violent asshole, and Rhys falling for it ~~because they're soulmates~~ for some…strange reason. Also, I like the idea that Rhys can feel Jack’s body, even if it isn’t literally tangible. So. Yeah. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handsome Jack ruins yet another date.

This is the most educational date Rhys has ever been on. By the end of the first course, he’s learned Sasha’s favorite color, the best way to pickpocket a mark, and what she looks like when she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe. It isn’t until the third course, however, that Rhys realizes how miserable he is.

He should be having a good time. Fuck that. He should be having an _excellent_ time. Helios’ number one jazz band is playing in the corner, the scent of filet mignon wafts up from stained-glass tables and golden plates and Sasha looks even more beautiful than Rhys had imagined she would in the nicest clothes she can afford on her (very generous) salary…but.

But.

He’s miserable. And not just because he hates jazz. He hasn’t…um…well. Rhys hasn’t had an _orgasm_ since the day all this started. First he was terrified for his life, then he was too busy chasing after the Gortys Project, and now…

Now Rhys can barely brush his teeth without Handsome Jack looking over his shoulder to tell him he’s missed a spot. He has to keep his closet doors open his closet because Jack likes popping out of them too much. It’s ridiculous. It’s especially ridiculous because Rhys expected Jack to have moved on to other things by now. 

Like the echo-net. Like Hyperion. Like Helios. Hell, Handsome Jack can look in on any and every technological system connected to Hyperion’s servers, which, to be honest, is more than a little terrifying. 

Still.

The point is that Jack has next to no reason to be spending all his time with Rhys, and even less reason to have forgotten the meaning of the phrase “personal space.” 

After the seventh ruined date on his calendar, Rhys tried asking politely for space. Jack responded by “politely” backhanding Rhys across the face with his own hand. Even the suggestion that Rhys wanted something was dangerous.

“Say please,” Handsome Jack said, laughing loudly enough that Rhys was surprised all of Hyperion couldn’t hear him, “Say pretty please!” Needless to say Rhys didn’t ask for _anything_ else that week, least of all an hour or two of personal time.

So, Rhys hasn’t been able to _get a hold of himself_ in months. Worse than that, he spends every moment he doesn’t see Jack nervously anticipating what horrifying (and hysterical—but in a way _only_ Jack understands) way he’ll pop up this time.

It’s been 72 hours since the last time he saw Handsome Jack, and Rhys expects to see him any moment now—behind every bright flash, after every loud noise. The tension in his shoulders twists and tightens with every passing minute, and his metal fingers dance a tap-tap-tap across the linen-swathed table.

_God_ , he thinks. _I’m worse than a fucking pet._

“People really eat this?” Sasha asks, poking a brightly colored piece of meat with her fork, “You’re not messing with me?”

Rhys grins flirtatiously. At least he tries to. “Would I do that to you?” 

From the look on her face, it’s a massive failure, most likely owing to the number of times he’s messed with her in the past.

“Uh…yeah?”

A montage of his colossal fuck-ups plays in his mind like a Rhys’-Greatest-Hits Album as Sasha ticks them off on her fingers. She laughs, smiling as big as he’s ever seen her, and Rhys takes yet another sip (a _big_ sip. maybe more of a gulp?) of his champagne. He can afford the good stuff now. And it’s more than that. He has to. Stepping into Handsome Jack’s shoes is no easy feat (no pun intended). Even though everyone who’s anyone knows that Jack’s really calling the shots these days, there’s no question that it’s Rhys—not Vasquez, not Henderson, and not anyone else—who is Handsome Jack’s heir apparent, the heir to the proverbial throne. So Rhys sneers at everyone who tries to earn his favor, hurls insults like dollar bills, and drink the most expensive champagne on the menu. Not just because he wants to (although, to be honest, he really does), but also because he has to. 

“No point telegraphing _all_ your weaknesses, Rhysie,” Jack said, the first night he made the mistake of trying to order his favorite cheap beer in front of his newly-minted subordinates. Rhys hadn’t tried _that_ again. Also, unsurprisingly, seven-hundred-dollar champagne tasted better, so there was that.

“Hey!”

The sound of clinking glass shocks Rhys out of his reverie. Sasha. Shit.

“Hey yourself,” he says, laughing nervously, but trails off. There’s no real way to come back from not paying attention to a woman, is there?

“Are you even paying attention to me?” Sasha asks.

No, he isn’t. He’s thinking about Jack.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

By this point, Rhys has run his hand through his hair so often that it’s starting to lose its style. He forces his flesh hand down and fixes his face into as close of a smile as he can manage. He can do this. It’s just…Sasha. Interested in him. On a _date_ with him.

Sasha looks at him dubiously. “You _are_ a Hyperion stooge.”

“The king of the stooges, now,” he corrects, trying to be funny. 

It’s something Jack would say, not him, and Rhys knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

Sasha’s mouth twists into a frown he hasn’t seen since, well, the time he/Jack smacked her ass back on Pandora. Surprise and disgust both battle for dominance across her features, and Rhys nearly cries from frustration.

“Hey, Sash…

But he’s stopped from trying (for the thousandth time, good job Rhys) to salvage this disaster of a date by the sound of a hundred tinkling glasses as they shatter at his feet.

When he finally comes to, he’s covered in at least a week’s salary worth of champagne, and blinking up into the big, beautiful eyes…of Handsome Jack. Rhys scrambles back, heedless of the shard of glass beneath his knees.

“Handsome Jack,” he breathes, barely audible over the sound of the glass clinking.

Jack winks. “The one and only!” he says, eyes dancing with undisguised mirth at Rhys’ current predicament.

“Shut up,” Rhys says. This is the millionth time Jack has caught him like this—on the floor, hurting/bleeding/screwed a thousand ways to Sunday. He’s not really angry, though, and there’s no heat behind his words, just…mortification. If only Jack could catch him in the middle of a really awesome three-way.

_Where did that come from,_ he wonders, and he can feel himself blushing. A lifelong crush on the most attractive man on the planet, probably. Thank God Jack hasn’t figured out how to read his mind. Yet.

“Um…I didn’t say anything?” Sasha whispers, looking at him with furrowed brows. She tucks an errant curl behind her ear. “Are you all right, Rhys?”

_“Are you sure you aren’t crazy,”_ Jack translates. “That’s what she really wants to ask you, you know.”

And that’s it, isn’t it. Sure, he’s the head of Hyperion. Sure he’s practically the king of Helios, and definitely the most powerful man on the planet right now. But it hasn’t been that long since Sasha (and Fiona, and Vaughn, _jesus)_ collectively watched him lose his shit over and over again on their mission to find a Vault Key. It hasn’t been that long since he smacked her on her ass and failed, utterly, to provide a reasonable explanation for doing so. 

_Are you insane?_  

It’s the only question Sasha could really have for him, at this point, and the only reason she hasn’t asked it is because, wonder of wonders (not to mention the most unbelievable thing Rhys has learned all day), she’s _nice_.

“Shut up!” Rhys hisses one more time, and glares at Jack before climbing back into his seat.

When he gets there, Jack is sitting on top of the gold-plated silverware. “Now, I let you get away with that once because I thought it was cute,” he says, smiling. 

Rhys has had months to learn Jack’s smiles. This one is dangerous.

“But tell me to shut up one more time and I’ll bend you so far in half that you’ll choke on your own cock, okay, kiddo?”

And now Rhys is really, really thankful Jack can’t read his mind, because that’s all he can think about for a few seconds. He just stares at Jack, whose smile grows wider and wider as he watches Rhys process his thoughts.

“As much as I enjoy watching you trip over your own tongue, I believe I asked you a question, hmm?”

“Yep, mhmm, absolutely” Rhys says instantly, stumbling over his words in an effort to put the image (and the idea, and the warm flush of embarrassed arousal that comes with it) out of his mind. “Okay. Got it.”

“Cool,” Sasha says, taking his words as an answer to…something. 

He’d missed it. _Holy shit_ , Rhys had forgotten all about her. 

“But what are you going to do about her?” Sasha glances meaningfully towards the back of the room. Rhys remembers the date, the drinks, the _waitress_ , curled up in the corner as if she wishes it would swallow her whole. 

“Um…nothing? I mean, she spilled the drinks on me, so…” Rhys can’t keep her from being fired, even if he wanted to. And now that Jack’s here, practically breathing down his neck, Rhys definitely isn’t going to try it.

“You _idiot,_ ” Sasha breathes. “ _I_ know you don’t want to do anything to her, but those Hyperion idiots don’t.”

When Rhys glares at her, _I own Hyperion, you twit_ on the tip of his tongue, she laughs loudly, shaking her head at him.

“The Hyperion idiots who aren’t you, I mean,” she clarifies. “I know you’re the head idiot nowadays.”

Rhys winces.

“Makes fun of you a lot, doesn’t she?” Jack observes (correctly) from behind his shoulder.

Rhys turns away, partly to get a look at the Hyperion guys, but mostly to talk to Jack without Sasha noticing.

“You make fun of me all the time,” he says, aware of how much he sounds like he’s whining, but too tired and frustrated and tipsy to stop it. It’s true that Jack makes fun of him almost nonstop, but it’s also true that it doesn’t rankle the way Sasha’s insults do. 

Rhys has also been nursing a crush on Handsome Jack for the better part of…well…his whole life, so Jack could probably punch Rhys in the face and he’d grin through the blood. 

In fact, he’s had dreams that started out exactly like that.

The smile that crosses Jack’s face then is so slow, and so wide, and so knowing that Rhys shrinks back from it. Jack just flickers even closer, into Rhys’ space, until Rhys can feel the hot crackling of energy making the hairs on his flesh arm stand up.

“Yeah, but the difference is…I _like_ you, Rhysie.” Rhys can feel the heat of phantom lips at his ear and Jack’s hand on the back of his neck. His breath stutters in his chest, just as his cock twitches under his champagne-stained pants.

_Shut up_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he forces it back with an effort, rolling his eyes as hard as humanly possible.

“See,” Jack says, brightening as if he hasn’t just caused the universe’s most inconvenient boner. “I knew you could do it!”

“Well?” asks Sasha, when he turns back to her. “What’s the plan?”

“I got it,” Rhys says. 

He absolutely does not got it. 

Between the image of himself deep throating himself and Jack whispering in his ear, he’s hot, shivery and sweaty all over, and his reputation as the coldest S.O.B. on Helios could not be further from his mind. What’s the fucking point of being the king if you’ve got to second guess yourself every fucking minute of every fucking day?

Rhys calls the waitress over anyway, if for no other reason than because he’s wet, covered in champagne, and needs to go home. When she gets to him, not just Sasha, or the Hyperion guys, but every single person in the restaurant turns to see what he’ll do.

“I’m so, so sorry,” the waitress says, then says again, then continues apologizing until she’s practically blue in the face, looking like there’s nowhere she’d want to be less in the world. 

She’s groveling, Rhys realizes. This is what groveling looks like. 

Finally, after a very obvious “cut-it-out” gesture from a man who must be her boss, she pulls herself together enough to ask “Can I get you anything else?”

It’s hard to tell who’s more afraid—the waitress, or Sasha, watching them. 

_You got this_ , Rhys tells himself.

“Nah, you don’t,” Jack says casually, and Rhys doesn’t have a second to react before he’s assuming control of Rhys’ metal arm. “But I do.”

_Oh no._

With an elegant flourish Rhys could never manage on his own, Jack reaches out with the metal arm and sweeps the tablecloth off the table. Of course, the elegance doesn’t extend to Rhys himself, who gets tangled in the cloth as soon as it’s off the table. Jack thinks this is fucking hilarious.

“Holy shit, Rhys,” breathes Sasha.

“Sure,” Rhsy agrees, pulling the cloth over his head, then pauses as he sees the table. “Okay, holy shit is right.” 

It’s like a magic trick—everything on the table is still in place.

Jack’s laughter trails off into distracted interest. “Wow, really? I could never do this before. Maybe I should have engineered that cybernetic arm after all. Oh well. I have you now, right?”

In the next minute, he’s knocked the glasses over—the table too, for good measure. He laughs hysterically as the plates and glasses and silverware clatter discordantly to the floor.

“Whoo!”

The Hyperion guys scattered around the room actually stand up to give him a round of applause, but Sasha…

“Nice one, Rhys,” she says, getting her jacket. 

Sasha’s gone.

Rhys wonders if he can come back from this. He wonders if it’s worth it.

The flicker of disappointment he feels at her departure is overwhelmed by the whistles and cheers and high-fives Rhys gets as the Hyperion boys come over to congratulate him. It took half a dozen years and more deaths than he’d like to count, but he’s made it. 

Three different people stand up to offer Rhys their seats, and he finds himself surrounded by more champagne than he could drink in a week.

The best part, however—the part that Rhys wouldn’t be acknowledging to himself if he wasn’t halfway drunk on euphoria and expensive champagne—is the way Jack looks at him. He looks at Rhys like he’s Jack’s favorite everything. It’s the best part of their _situation_ by far.

The jokes embarrass Rhys, the violence turns him on (although he’d never admit it to Jack), and the endless pet names manage to accomplish both at the same time. This, on the other hand? This fond, unrestrained pride? It’s like Christmas, warming him from the inside out.

“Nice going, kid,” Jack says, smug as can be, and the praise goes straight to his cock. Rhys grins back. 

Then, of course, Jack ruins it. Because he’s Handsome Jack.

“But don’t trust none of ‘em,” he adds with a wink, and disappears.

And, well. There goes Rhys’ mood, and with it, any intention he had of staying at the bar.

Walking out the door, he sees the waitress on the floor, still cleaning up the broken glass from his/Jack’s outburst. Now that no one is watching or judging him, Rhys feels terrible. He feels like the world’s biggest asshole. And he probably is. 

Digging into his pocket, Rhys gives her a 50% tip, and can barely meet her eyes as he does it.

What’s even worse?

He still _hasn't fucking come._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter in a week!


	2. Pavlov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys comes clean.

Rhys doesn’t see Jack again until he’s home, sitting heavily in the love seat Vaughn used to sleep in when they first got hired at Hyperion. 

“So, when are you gonna move out of this shithole anyway?” 

Rhys curses. It may be a shithole—it is a shithole—but it’s _his_ shithole. Besides, what was Jack doing at the apartment anyway? Other than ruining his life, that is.

“When are you going to find something better to do with your time?” he spits back.

Jack just laughs. “I have, actually. Just finished uploading a nasty virus to Eden-5 firmware.” He waves his arms, as if to minimize the deliberate corruption of an entire police force. “But I’ll have someone clean up the bodies later. I’m here to see you, baby!”

Great. There was a time when he’d have given a million dollars to see Jack (of someone else’s money, of course, but still). Things are different now. Rhys rolls his eyes.

“Lucky me,” he mutters, and crosses his legs. Protip: crossing your legs in an air of practiced nonchalance only works when said legs are not still damp and sticky from twenty pounds of champagne. _Goddamnit._

Jack looks over with interest, and Rhys realizes he’s spoken aloud. 

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks, “Did wittle whysie wet his pants?” Then he explodes in hysterics.

“No!” Rhys answers. “I did not! I just…spilled champagne—well, it wasn’t me but it _was_ champagne. I mean—

Then he cut himself off, because Jack has stopped laughing at his ruined pants and is now just laughing at him, his eyes sparkling blue in the darkness.

“Wo-ow” Jack says, “You are wound SO tight, buddy. What’s the deal? Not so good to be the king, huh?”

“No,” Rhys answers, partly because that’s not _entirely_ true, but mostly because he doesn’t want to tell Jack that the empire he’s practically gifted to him has been as much of a curse as it has been a blessing.

“So what is it?” Jack prods. He squints down at Rhys from his perch on top of the table. “Need a massage?”

Rhys sighs. “No.”

“A happy ending?” Jack asks, and Rhys can’t tell if he sounds excited or derisive.

Rhys settles into the chair, stretching his long legs on the stack of old textbooks he and Vaughn used as a coffeetable.

“No—Jesus—no! Just…” Rhys breathes deep, then asks the question he’s been dying to ask for weeks. “How do I know who to trust, Jack?”

“Ah,” says Jack eloquently.

Clearly he’s had too much to drink, but it’s too late now and he can’t stop himself. “At first I thought I should trust Vaughn, but he made a deal with Vasquez. Oh, but only after Yvette—Yvette!—made a deal with him too! And let’s not even talk about Fiona and Sasha—

“She did make fun of you,” Jack adds. “Next time throw _her_ out the airlock.”

“I know! Just…” he pauses. “I thought I could trust Hyperion, but Henderson…and Vasquez—ugh—and now ever since you promoted me, they look at me like…” Rhys shudders, remembering their faces after the news first broke—the shock, the disbelief, the jealousy…the casual, murderous rage.

Jack slides forward on the table until he’s sitting directly in front of Rhys. Sparks of energy hit Rhys’ skin like saltwater spray and Rhys realizes that he is really, truly, incredibly drunk…because it doesn’t feel painful. In fact, it feels almost overwhelmingly good. Like standing on the beach with his toes in the ocean, just on the edge of all that violent blue.

“Rhys, Rhysie baby, listen to me. You listening?”

It’s possibly the first moment in months that Handsome Jack has been serious with him, and he nearly gets whiplash from the shift in tone. Jack’s an asshole, and a jerk, and way, way, way too violent, but he’s always got something to say. After a moment staring blindly into Jack’s eyes, Rhys decides.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding in an effort to hide his nervousness, “I’m listening.”

Jack looks in his eyes, blinking once to make sure Rhys is paying attention. “The only person you can trust…is me.”

Rhys stares. That can’t be it…right? Rhys is sure that can’t be it. He waits, incredulously, for the punchline. Nothing comes.

“Oh my god, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

Jack nods, unsmiling behind his mask. “As a heart attack.”

Laughter bubbles up in Rhys’ throat, and he can’t tell if it’s because Jack’s insane, or he’s insane, or both. It almost sounds like Jack might actually have a point. After all, Rhys has chosen his side every single time he’s had a choice—with Fiona, with Hyperion, with Rhys…

Maybe he is insane.

Jack squints at him, and Rhys feels himself flush from the heat of Jack’s eyes—the crackling energy of his body. Not for the first time, Rhys becomes aware of just how _attractive_ Jack is. He’s like…so attractive. And not just in a “You’re my childhood hero and I want to be you when I grow up,” kind of way. There’s something different about being alone in an apartment with Handsome Jack that makes Rhys nervous, and he hurries to answer.

“Okay, I may…trust you, but I don’t trust _only_ you. That’s…” Rhys forces a laugh, but it comes out weak, even to his own ears. “That’s delusional. You’re delusional.”

He can only hold Jack’s gaze for so long. When Rhys finally drops his eyes and turns away, Jack _hmmm_ s in a way that sounds triumphant enough to rankle, and pleased enough to cause a warm flush of arousal to curl in his belly. When he next looks at Jack, his smile is an echo of the one in the restaurant, slow and lazy as if he’d been the one drunk on champagne.

“Mhmm,” Jack murmurs again, “Right. Okay, cupcake. Tell me more about every single one of your friends betraying you.”

Rhys can feel his mouth drop open. It’s the truth, of course, no worse than what he’s just said, but it feels like a punch to the solar plexus when it comes from Jack. 

What is he supposed to do with that? Not trust his friends? Not trust anyone?

Rhys stands up, then, walking carefully around Jack to get away from him, into his room. Maybe Jack will go away. Maybe he can just sleep, or jerk off, or whatever, and one morning he’ll wake up happy and unstressed. Maybe one day Rhys will feel less alone in the world.

Maybe he’ll stop being such a sad fucking drunk.

It’s not even a surprise when Rhys looks up to see Jack standing in his way, arms crossed like he could not possibly be less impressed. Rhys stops in front of the mirror.

“Hey, listen, pal, I’m just trying to help, okay? A little hard-earned advice straight from Handsome Jack. Don’t trust anyone.”

Rhys frowns, hearing his own thoughts spoken aloud by Jack. Not for the first time, he reminds himself that Jack can’t read his mind. Still…he might as well, for all his ability to read Rhys like a book. Fortunately for Rhys, he was always a quick study. 

“Except you, right?” he responds, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. “Don’t trust anyone except Handsome Jack?” 

Unfortunately Jack doesn’t look anything near appropriately humbled by Rhys’ ability to know what _he’s_ thinking before he says it. Instead, he looks utterly delighted by it, and grins.

“Now you’re getting it!” he says, clapping his hands in excitement.

A shock of electricity passes through him as Jack forgets—again—his current state of incorporeality and attempts to clap a hand to his shoulder. 

_Fucking Jack._

“What’s wrong, Jack?” Rhys asks, frustrated and angry and lashing out (because why not—Jack does it all the time), “The laws of space and time not bending to your will?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Jack fires back, and Rhys’ stomach drops when a nasty grin spreads across his face. “You did.”

Rhys sighs, all the fight gone out of him. Everything sounds questionable coming from the lips of Handsome Jack, but even Rhys can’t deny the truth of it this time. Whether he was keeping Jack’s existence a secret, or giving him control of the drones, hell, even taking over Hyperion was Jack’s idea. The best Rhys had ever hoped for was a senior position in middle management. But now? Now he’s the president of Hyperion. Employees bow when he passes by, he receives no fewer than 500 lunch invitations per day, and he hasn’t lost a finger-gun battle in _months_. And the price for all of this? Just his complete, total and unflinching loyalty. 

No, not loyalty. Submission.

A familiar feeling of embarrassed arousal sweeps through Rhys, and he turns away from Jack, focusing instead on the mirror. The face looking back at him is tired, with bloodshot eyes, and looks up at him with resignation.

“Shut. Up. Jack.” Rhys says with venom.

The room is utterly silent for a moment, and then Rhys is rewarded by the weight of his metal hand smacking him hard across the face.

Jack laughs loudly, actually bending down to slap his thigh. “I have been waiting ALL NIGHT to do that, babe! You have no idea.”

Rhys just stares in the mirror, watching the bruise bloom across his cheek. He gathers his anger, drawing from the pain to bolster his dislike of Jack. 

It’s not working. In fact, the pain just feels…

“Or do you?” Jack says suspiciously. 

Rhys’ dick twitches in his pants as Jack comes up behind him.

Rhys experiences a moment of unreality as he feels Jack behind him, hears him whisper in his ear, but sees nothing at all in the mirror. It’s like vertigo. Just with boners.

“What did I say I’d do to you if you said that again?” 

Rhys sucks in a breath. 

“Jack,” he starts, his voice pitched so high it’s almost a whine.

Jack interrupts. “Nah, nah, nah, refresh my memory, because—

He flails his arms around a bit.

“It’s all a bit muddled, you know? What with the champagne spilling all over your crotch and everything.”

He eyes Rhys’ dick speculatively and Rhys shields it with his hands.

“Jack,” he tries, again, but Jack ignores him, staring between his legs with an intensity that makes Rhys nervous. And protective. Jack likes to hit.

“What did I say, sweetheart?” Jack asks, eyes still on Rhys’ dick. His voice is deceptively soft, and Rhys tenses for a blow that never comes. 

The way he reacts to all those stupid pet names, Jack should really just call him Pavlov.

_It worked, didn’t it?_

Rhys swallows.

“You said you’d bend me over so far I’d choke on my own cock,” he repeats dutifully. 

“Ah,” Jack says. “Yes.” 

Despite himself, Rhys hisses in anticipation, breath catching in his throat as he feels the cool spark of Jack’s hand press at the base of his spine.

“Jack,” Rhys says a third time, and Jack’s hand comes closer, so that it almost hurts, the electricity sparking close to his port. Rhys can feel the warning in Jack’s voice before he even speaks.

“You know, Peter denied Jesus three times,” Jack says conversationally, dragging his finger down the front of Rhys’ shirt. 

Rhys rolls his eyes. “What are you, now, Jesus?” Then, before Jack can say anything, “Yes, yes, I know, you did rise from the dead.”

Jack looks almost impressed, then takes control of Rhys’ metal arm, bring a smooth finger up to flick painfully against the bruise on his cheek.

“Cheeky,” he says, chuckling lightly at Rhys, who jumps at the contact. It feels like the arm has a direct line to his cock, and every touch brings him closer and closer to losing his fucking mind. “Care for a matching set, pumpkin?”

Looking at himself in the mirror, Rhys can’t help the feeling that he’s watching Jack. It’s his metal arm in the mirror, but it’s _Jack_ controlling it. It’s Jack who’s still got his fingers on Rhys’ cheek, caressing the bruise like he’s forgotten why his hand was there in the first place. It’s Jack. It’s always Jack. Rhys shakes his head quickly. The faster this is done with, the faster he can give up the charade and just get himself off. Finally.

“No, Jack, of _course_ not,” Rhys says, looking away from himself in the mirror. “Do I look like I want you to touch me again?”

Why did he have to put it like that? He looks in the distance, trying to find something to take Jack’s mind off of the words coming out of his mouth, but…

“OH,” Jack starts, and Rhys puts his head in his hands. “Oh ho ho ho you have _got_ to be kidding me!” Jack’s laughter is loud and echo-y in his head, but, for all that, still fond and good-humored. It feels like the sun on his shoulders, like the wind at his back, and unfortunately does absolutely nothing to quell the…situation in his pants. 

Jack smirks, wiping his eyes. “If I’d known you’d felt that way about me…

And…no. He doesn’t.

“I don’t feel any way about you,” Rhys clarifies. “Really, I just—

“Really?” asks Handsome Jack, mirth written across his features. “Are you sure? Like, are you sure-sure? That’s not how it looks from up here, honey.”

Following Jack’s gaze, Rhys realizes that he’s actually starting to _tent his pants what the fuck?_

“No! No.” Because of course Jack can see right through him. He’s been fending off lovesick fools and obsessed fans since before Rhys’ time. Of course he knows how Rhys feels about him. Or, at least, how he felt about him. His feelings about Jack now are so wrapped up in love and lust and fear and obligation that he doesn’t even attempt to think about it anymore. Just closes his eyes and goes with the flow. 

Rhys is halfway to figuring out a halfway decent lie, when he hears a loud “ah ah aaah,” and one look at Handsome Jack stops that train of thought like a ton of bricks.

Jack just glares at him, eyebrows raised. Rhys gets so caught up in the translucent brightness of them that he’s actually startled when his metal hand lowers to his own neck, tightening just slightly.

“The truth this time. Mmmkay?”

Tears spring to his eyes and his cock hardens still more in his pants. Does Jack know what he’s doing? Fuck it. Swallowing hard, Rhys looks Handsome Jack in the eye and forces his voice not to shake as he answers.

“I haven’t gotten off since July. Partly because I’ve been busy, but mostly because of…well, you.” The smirk on Jack’s face only deepens, and Rhys continues, racing now to get the easy answer out before Jack interrupts and finds the real one, “I’m just really fucking stressed, and I feel like I’ll die if I don’t get off,” he finishes. “So thank you, very much, for ruining my date, _again_ , interrupting my quiet time, _again,_ and—

“Look at you,” Jack murmurs, neatly avoiding the subject of his pathological possessiveness. “All desperate, all needy, and all _mine._ ” 

Rhys opens his mouth to argue the point (losing battle though it is), and as if on fucking cue, the metal hand at his neck squeezes once, and Rhys looks up to be confronted with the uncomfortable image of…him. Choking himself. He shifts uncomfortably in Jack’s grip, hissing as his cock drags against the fabric of his briefs. Jack must be loving this.

“Please,” Rhys starts without thinking, and whether he means to say _please I can’t breathe_ , _please make me come_ , or _please let me go_ , he doesn’t know. As usual, the decision is made for him, and Rhys willingly goes along with it.

Jack smiles, all teeth. 

Rhys feels a chill run down his spine as he realizes what he’s just said—what he’s just agreed to, really.

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Jack says grinning like a predator sizing up his prey, “Handsome Jack is right here, princess. And he’s going to take _good_ care of you. Trust me.”

And it’s not a question, per se, but Jack looks impatient, expectant, and Rhys is reminded of there conversations at the Gortys Project, on the roof of the caravan, and in Jack’s chair (still Jack’s, even though Rhys is the one who sits in it these days). Rhys likes to complain about Jack taking his power, and forcing him to do things, but the fact of the matter is, while he may take control of Rhys’ hand to break dishes and smack him around every once in a while, for the important decisions—for the decisions that matter—Handsome Jack always gets Rhys’ tacit agreement, if not his explicit verbal consent. And this time is no different. 

Sure, Rhys could say no _to Handsome Jack_ and survive. Maybe. Probably. But if he’s really being honest with himself, he’s never really wanted to. And that’s the scariest thing about it.

In a moment of weakness, Rhys nods, slowly. Then, when Handsome Jack puts a hand to his ear like a half-deaf septuagenarian, Rhys rolls his eyes, shakes his head, clears his throat.

“Yes, Jack,” he says, and the pleased look on Jack’s face makes Rhys bite his lip against a confusing rush of fear and arousal. “I trust you.”

Rubbing his hands together like a kid in a candy store, Jack walks past Rhys into the bedroom, not even looking to see if Rhys is behind him. 

The moment passes when Jack disappears, and Rhys glares accusingly at his own flushed face in the mirror, cheek flushed as much from arousal as from Jack’s hand. Played like a fiddle. Again.

But as bad as saying no would have been, going back on his word would be worse.

Rhys curses himself, his traitorous body, and his weak, weak will, but he turns around and follows Jack, nonetheless.

“That’s what I like to hear, cupcake,” Handsome Jack says. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Handsome Jack. That is all.


	3. Better Than the Blue Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys gets to get off.

It isn’t cold in Rhys’ room, but he shivers with Jack’s eyes on him. He doesn’t look at him as his property, Rhys is sure.

He’s pretty sure, anyway.

But Jack circles Rhys’s body with a smile on his face and his eyes on the bulge in his jeans and Rhys begins to wonder. 

“What are you waiting for?” Jack asks, then squints, his smile widening as Rhys struggles for an answer. “Permission?”

Rhys rolls his eyes, throwing himself into his unmade bed. “Like I need your permission,” he scoffs, but Handsome Jack is already laughing so hard he can’t hear him.

“Oh that is just GOLD!” he says, hands on his hips. “Oh ho ho ho, Rhysie. My golden boy. My golden goose.”

“I’m not a—

“Whatever,” Jack interrupts, waving away Rhys’ protest like a mosquito.

Rhys glares, and it’s a good thing Jack is going to let him get off soon, because he feels like a rubber band ready to pop—the stress and the arousal and the tension and fucking Jack’s fucking face are winding him up like a…

_Not_ like a jack-in-the-box. Like anything else. Literally, anything else.

“Come on, princess, take your clothes off,” Jack says. “I’m bored, and time’s a wasting.” He sits on Rhys’ desk with his eyebrows raised and taps an imaginary watch. Like Rhys is boring him. Still, he doesn’t take his eyes off of Rhys for a minute.

Rhys doesn’t know how he feels about that. But his dick certainly does.

“What, am I your only source of entertainment,” he spits, ripping his shirt open and starting on his tie. “Mister ‘I am a fucking god?’”

Handsome Jack grins, amused at Rhys’ consternation and entirely unembarrassed by his own ridiculous exclamations. “Nope,” he agrees. “Not even a little bit.” 

Then his eyes soften, the harsh electric blue muting into something softer, and Rhys’ fingers pause on his zipper.  

“But you’re definitely my favorite, kiddo.”

The bruise on his face pulses in time with his heartbeat and Rhys wonders when he got so fucked up that he started falling in love with psychopaths.

Jack’s eyes flick to his crotch and Rhys’ hands move without thinking to his dick, cupping it gently through his pants.

Between the champagne, the stress, and the flirting with Jack, Rhys is half-hard already, and he hisses as soon as he gets hands on himself, twisting in the bed so he can get his pants down. This is fine for him—more than fine, actually, the tightness at his thighs is almost as good as a firm hand on his hip, and Rhys glances at Jack to see if he’ll have to strip all the way.

“Is this…

“Yeah,” says Handsome Jack, uncharacteristically quiet. He flexes his fingers. “Spit on it.”

Rhys does, and lets out a moan, his eyes fluttering shut as he slowly starts stroking his cock with his flesh hand.

It feels good. It feels beyond good. It’s been months, _months_ , since he’s been able to touch himself and he’s never been one for delayed gratification, but _this._

It’s still a little sticky, from the champagne, and Rhys brings his hand to his mouth, licking it again, and is overwhelmed by the taste of it—the sweetness mixed with his own musk. He licks his hand all over, then grasps his dick again.

_“_ Fuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back against the pillows. It’s like Jack’s dopamine chair. Times a thousand. 

_Shit. Jack._

He opens his eyes to find Jack, looking at him with the ghost of a smile on his face.

“Better than the blue stuff, huh, Rhysie?” Jack smirks.

Rhys is too far gone to lie about drugs (or to wonder how Jack knows about it), so he nods, sucking in a breath as he twists his hand over the head of his dick.

“Uh huh,” he moans, and bucks up into his own hand. “Fuck.”

Rhys drags a smooth metal finger up his torso, and shivers at the coolness of it. He closes his eyes again, and loses himself in the sensations—the heat of his cock, the coolness on his chest, and the shivery, prickling sensation of Jack’s eyes on him. When his hand passes over his nipples, Rhys shudders at the feeling.

“Pinch ‘em, cupcake,” Jack directs. Rhys slips metal fingers into his mouth, then grins, pleased despite himself, when he hears Jack suck in a breath. Rhys drags his fingers down his neck, then his chest, circling one nipple slowly, drawing closer and closer and closer, then finally pinching it softly with his metal fingers.

He lets out a groan, and attempts to muffle himself with his flesh arm when it echoes, but Jack won’t let him.

“Ah ah ah,” Jack murmurs, his voice thick like honey. “Let me hear you, kitten.”

Rhys whimpers then. Jack hums in appreciation, and Rhys has _neighbors_ for fuck’s sake, and even if they can’t hear Jack, they can certainly hear him. For some reason that arouses him more than it should.

“Fuck you, man,” Rhys groans, but his body is thrumming and his nipples are pulsing and he loses his train of thought when his flesh hand, almost on autopilot, slips between his legs to cradle his balls. 

“Mhmm,” Jack agrees, staring, then looks back at Rhys. “Now the next one. Harder this time.”

And Rhys doesn't even think, just circles the next nipple with a wet finger. He draws closer and closer, but he knows it’s going to hurt—doesn’t even dream of pretending for Jack—and he can’t bring himself to squeeze.

“Come on,” Jack whispers, “I know you can take it.”

That’s all he needs, really. And Rhys squeezes his fingers together before he can think about it, whining high and loud in throat as the sweet ache dissipates through his body like a morphine drip.

“ _There_ you go,” Jack murmurs, and the praise feels almost as good as a hand on his dick.

He’s hard as a rock now, and Rhys isn’t even trying to pretend that he’s not doing this for Jack anymore. With his legs spread and his teeth firmly pressing into his lip, he keeps pumping his cock, bucking up into it as heat spreads through his body. 

Jack is watching. Jack is watching _him_. It’s better than exactly all of his high school, college, and adult fantasies put together.

He spits into his hand again, even though his cock is leaking precome, and squeezes it even harder, letting the mess dribble down his thighs.

“Jesus Christ, kitten,” Jack says, almost reverently, and Rhys curses, his dick twitching and letting out another shining bead of fluid. 

He’s right next to Rhys on the bed, his face close enough that Rhys could kiss him. His body shifts instinctively to face him, and Handsome Jack smiles when he sees it.

Rhys watches transfixed as Handsome Jack draws a finger up the side of his thigh, drawing bright electric circles on his hip. It sends sparks through his skin, and Rhys hisses at the feeling, falling back into the pillows as Handsome Jack admires his handiwork.

“That feel good, baby?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Rhys answers breathlessly, pumping his cock even faster. “Yes.”

The waistband of his pants is digging into his thighs and his hips feel like they’re on fire and everything—everything—feels like a sandstorm of lust, bringing his arousal higher and higher until Rhys thinks he might faint. Still, he pumps his cock, feeling closer and closer to the edge as Jack watches him.

“Jack,” he calls, reaching out blindly before remembering that Handsome Jack doesn’t have a body. “I’m gonna—I think I’m gonna—

The bright circles on Rhys’ hips still, and Jack shakes his head.

“I don’t think so,” Jack says, and wiggles Rhys’ fingers, controlling his metal hand.

Within seconds, he’s yanked his tie from the headboard, and looped it around his neck.

Rhys’ flesh hand stills on his cock. Rhys looks at Jack, his mouth falling open as he pulls the tie—not tight enough to constrict his breathing, but enough to let him know Jack’s in control. 

It’s hardly a surprise, and part of Rhys wonders why Jack let him run the show for so long. The other part of him _was about to fucking come, Jack, what the fuck?!_

The words _no_ , _don’t_ , and _stop_ don’t even cross his mind.

“Look at you,” Jack murmurs. He looks more satisfied than he had when Rhys jacked him into the Hyperion servers, and Rhys flushes with embarrassment and excitement, and praise. “All mine.”

The last part comes out as more of a growl than anything else, and Rhys is too close to coming to parse out what it means, but he _likes_ it.

Then, the fabric tightens.

All of a sudden, it’s like the world slows around Rhys. All there is is Jack, and his tie around his neck, and his hand on his cock. 

“Yes,” Rhys says, and doesn’t think about what he's saying.

It feel good, not to think, and he closes his eyes, just feeling—the warmth of his hand on his cock, the electricity of Jack at his back, and the tightness at his throat. 

Rhys hears Jack exhale and smiles at the sound. It feels good, being on display like this, and he turns to see the smile on his face.

“Do you want to come, Rhys?” Jack asks, and his voice is softer than Rhys has ever heard it.

Rhys nods, shifting closer to the crackling heat of Jack’s body. 

And now Jack is whispering in his ear, murmuring curses and endearments and…

“Touch yourself. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Rhys nods again, murmuring a slow “mhmm,” as his flesh hand starts moving again, the tightness at his throat only spurring him to pump his cock harder.

The tie tightens, and Rhys just watches Jack, blinking slowly. He doesn’t think Jack will hurt him, at least not in a way that’s permanent, but for the first time in a while, he is aware of the fact that Jack _could_. If he wanted to. If he felt so inclined.

Rhys struggles a little. It _hurts_. It feels good. He wants to come.

“You look so good like this,” Jack murmurs. 

Jack is literally holding Rhys’ life in the palm of his hand, and all Rhys can do is moan and whimper, and bite his lip as the tie grows even tighter.

“You can take it,” Jack encourages, licking his lips as Rhys starts to shake.

“Jack,” Rhys pleads, “I can’t—

Then the tie is tightening even further.

He wants to breathe and he wants to come, and he wants to breathe and he wants to come, and he’s pumping his cock and bucking his hips, and as the sensations become too much for him and build up beneath his skin, he forces the words out his mouth.

“Please, Jack,” and Jack grins. He loosens the tie.

Oxygen rushes in like a flood, and sends Rhys tumbling over the edge as everything goes white. He doesn’t have the breath to scream, but sighs long and loud as every muscle in his body twitches and shivers with pleasure.

When Rhys comes to, Jack is watching him cautiously from his perch across the room.

“I wish you had a body,” Rhys breathes, loose and unguarded. Everything feels good. He barely notices Jack’s suspicious squint.

“Why?”

_So you could hold me_ , Rhys thinks, and barely has the presence of mind to bite back the words. He bangs his head against the headboard.

_Stupid. Stupid._

After a moment, he pulls himself together. “So you could get a washcloth and clean me up,” he says instead.

“Cruel,” says Jack, then nods approvingly. “A man after my own heart.”

Rhys sighs, and settles for grabbing a kleenex from the side table and pitching it into the trash before pulling off his pants and climbing under the covers.

“You missed,” Jack says, as soon as his eyes slide shut.

He can practically hear the shit-eating grin on Jack’s face.

“Are you gonna stay here all night?” Rhys whines, hoping the answer is yes and hating himself for it.

“Aww,” Jack sings, then cocks his head to the side. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” Rhys scowls.

Jack laughs.

“Then yeah, probably,” Jack says. Then, after a minute, “Do you have something to drink?”

Rhys raises his eyebrows.

“Why, are you thirsty?”

“Ha. Funny,” Jack says. “But you should probably drink something. Before you go to sleep.”

Rhys stretches across the bed, reaching to pull an energy drink out of the mini-fridge.

“Why the concern?”

Jack looks at Rhys for a moment, then waves a hand in the air. “Electrolytes,” he says, as if that in any way resembles an answer. “Or, you know, whatever. Just _drink it_.”

And Rhys does, finishing half the bottle before pausing to breathe.

“Told you so,” says Jack, but Rhys is too content to protest. 

“Mmkay,” he says sleepily, and yawns. 

When it looks like Rhys is about to fall asleep with the bottle in his hand, Jack walks over and uses Rhys’ metal arm to put it out of harm’s way, and he snuggles further into the pillows. Then he climbs into bed with him.

Rhys can’t feel his skin, or his hand, but he can feel the soft heat of electricity at his back, and he snuggles back into it, exhausted.

Jack wakes him up five minutes later because Jack is an asshole.

Rhys hears a noise and snaps awake, half expecting to find a rattlesnake or a skag or something on the pillow where Jack used to be. But no, it’s just Jack. Waking him up. On purpose. 

_Asshole._

Rhys groans before rubbing at his eyes with his flesh hand.

“What. the. fuck.” he asks.

“Fuck you, cupcake,” Jack grins, more pleased with himself than anyone has a right to be, and Rhys shakes his head.

“Shut up, Jack,” he says, and goes back to sleep.

Jack stays. 

—

It isn’t _entirely_ a good thing.

But Rhys makes the best of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thankgiving! I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr. It's embarrassing. Come say hi!
> 
> thebriggsbrigade.tumblr.com


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